Life under the sea is far superior to anything up top. My sole and innocent intention on my trip to the Chinese Cherry Buffet was simply to maw down on a pangaea of divine deep sea delights, such as raw baby octopus, mussels, squid, shrimps, scallops, and sushi of all sort.
Beautiful and charming these succulent mollusks and their sucker-bearing tentacles may be, gorging out on brimfuls of briny smorgasbord delicacies was like a self-serve invitation to hell. Afterward, I waddled out of the joint clutching my roiling tummy like the gutless punk I am. Why is it every time I encounter a seafood buffet, my eyes light up like a twerked-out Lite Brite on crack?
As the sinister brood of saltwater crustaceans swimming around my stomach were plotting the rigors of some seriously fucked up poisonous death threnody, I managed to take a deep breath and remind myself that mermaids do this sort of thing all the time.
Sir Eats-A-Lot may have sagely warned my ass to slow down on the fetishization of these lip-smacking deep dive delectables. He might have told me to slow off on the sea cucumbers. The spicy bowls of tiny-fish stew. The wasabi-smothered seaweed mystery wraps. He might have been right. As it is, my mouth tastes like an aquarium, and just in time for Valentine's Day. Sufferin' seahorses!
The Eeyore of the deep sea. I feel your pain, bro. I truly do.
